


Maybe

by WickedGood



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Angst, Both of them are hopeless nerds, Death, Jean is a writer, M/M, Marco is a Reaper, Mentions of Suicide, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-07
Updated: 2014-08-07
Packaged: 2018-02-12 06:08:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,790
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2098506
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WickedGood/pseuds/WickedGood
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"AU where Jean meets a stranger named Marco who claims that he’s Jean’s guardian angel, when really Marco is a Grim Reaper waiting for him to die in a month. But during that month of waiting, they fall in love with each other."</p><p>Or, that one where Jean goes to a liberal art college for writing and Marco crashes his apartment for a month and they make out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Maybe

**Author's Note:**

> Haha, so this was a lot of fun to write. Shout out to imagine-jeanmarco on Tumblr for posting the prompt and convincing me to do it!

        He didn't sign up for this.

        If someone had told him on the night of his suicide that if he went through with it, he would be stuck having to collect the souls of the dead for all eternity, Marco, granted, probably wouldn't have believed them, but it would have planted some form of doubt in his mind. It would have distracted him from his self-destructive path long enough for reality to sink in. Maybe he would have wondered, _Wait, I really don't know what's going to happen, do I? Wait, can I really go through with this?_ Maybe he would have lived long enough to see his sister's graduation, his mom's second marriage. Maybe he could have lived his life the way he wanted to.

        Well, as Reiner says, shit happens. Too late now. Marco had to admit, despite it being completely depressing, rather boring at times, and downright _wrong_ at others, his afterlife wasn't the worst in the world. He had made a couple really good friends that had to suffer through the same fate he had, and, although the job started off as punishment for those who took their own lives, Marco quickly learned a lot more than he ever would have while still alive. He was forever 21 and wise beyond his years. It was a pretty good deal, after a while.

        He should have known it couldn't have lasted forever. Of all people, the Grim Reaper should know that.

        Marco went about things a little differently, as far as the rest of the Reapers went. The others would normally just show up and collect the souls of the human as soon as they met whatever their demise was. What Marco did was considered strange by some, brilliant by others.

        He got to know his victims first.

        “You're too nice. You just can't kill 'em, you gotta see what kind of person they are, what their dreams, aspirations are, what they're leaving behind,” Reiner often teased him for it, despite Bert's pleadings to do otherwise. But Marco knew he never meant it- the other Reaper was most likely jealous of Marco's success, if anything. With his method, Marco was always sure where the soul would end up, and sometimes he would help them along on their journey, if they weren't strong enough to get there on their own. Marco was born to help others. His caring nature was just what the newly departed needed.

        Higher ups had noticed how good he was. They let him have all the time he needed when doing assignments and gave him all the information in advance. Normally, it would take Marco a month.

 

        Day One.

        If there was one thing Marco was thankful for, it was that the standard uniform for Reapers weren't long, black cloaks, and the trendy accessory wasn't a scythe. It was a sharp, modern-looking suit, and honestly, Marco was pretty sure he rocked it.

        Jean Kirstein was his target. A young twenty year old who would get hit by a drunk driver. Right now, he was heading to a local coffee shop, and wasn't looking where he was going when he was crossing the street. His ear buds were on full blast too.

        Marco grabbed his hand from the sidewalk and pulled him away from a car whizzing past. “You're gonna send yourself to an early grave if you keep this up,” He said in amusement, still holding onto his arm while Jean ripped his ear buds out, not bothering to pause the music.

        “Who the fuck are you?” His amber eyes narrowed, and it looked like he was going to try and bolt any second now. Maybe this method of introduction wasn't the best. Marco had meant to follow him into the coffee shop, ask him to sit down, tell him what would happen, how Marco was there for him. But even the slightest possibility of Jean getting majorly hurt before his death day wasn't something Marco wanted to risk. People died when it was their time. No exceptions.

        “I'm Marco. Think of me as your guardian angel.” He didn't usually lie to his partners (he thought of them as his partners, for lack of a better term). It just sort of slipped out. Maybe it would be easier to believe than his Grim Reaper tale.

        “Fuck kind of pickup line is that?”

        “Apparently not a very effective one?” Marco guessed with a sheepish smile. “Can I buy you a drink and explain?”

        Jean appeared to mull it over, running a hand through his two-tone hair carefully. After a moment, he flashed him a crooked grin.“You're lucky I love a guy in a suit.”

 

        “Jean Kirstein. Your dad died from prostate cancer when you were seven, leaving the family business in the hands of your mother. She groomed you to be the next CEO of the company, but you left for a liberal arts school to become a writer- your dad is proud of you, by the way, he never had any creative ability and is really glad you're going to follow your dreams. Also likes Connie and Sasha- a film major hoping to do stunt work, and a photographer who Instagrams every meal unironically, right?”

        Marco tried not to feel too proud as Jean's eyes went wide. “Okay, you've done your homework,” he admitted after sipping the still steaming espresso. “But that doesn't prove anything.”

        Jean was a skeptic. Marco had dealt with worse. “Alright, guess we'll have to do this the hard way. See that girl over there?” He pointed to the girl at the table opposite of them, sitting alone with just her black pigtails and John Green novel.

        “Oh, Mina?” Jean asked in recognition.

        “You know her?”

        “She's a poetry major.”

        “Invite her over.” Jean looked confused, but didn't question him. “Hey Mina,” he called, waving to get her attention.

        She blinked, hearing her name, and looked over. Seeing Jean, she beamed and headed over. “Hey Jean. Who's your friend?”

        “This is Marco.”

        Marco smiled warmly at Jean's classmate, then stood. “Nice to meet you. I'll be right back, gonna to go get a refill,” He sent Jean a reassuring look before going. The poor guy was looking a little lost. It couldn't be helped.

        Marco got himself another cappuccino, stirring the milk around thoughtfully. He would give it five minutes. He passed the time reorganizing the scattered sugar packets, occasionally tossing glances to the pair he left behind. If the snippets of conversation Marco was hearing were correct, the two were getting into a heated discussion on Hemingway. Amused, the Reaper headed back to the table.

        “There you are Marco,” Jean sighed as he sat down. “I was wondering where you got to,”

        “Oh, you know him? Hi, I'm Mina, nice to meet you!” Mina said cheerily, offering her hand to the freckled boy.

        “Nice to meet you too, Mina. I'm a friend of Jean's from high school,” Marco smiled, meeting Jean's confused stare with a sly gaze.

        “But you two just-”

        “Oh, sorry guys, I gotta head to the book store, my shift is in ten minutes. See you around!” Mina looked apologetic as she grabbed her book from the nearby table and waved in a cute farewell before exiting the shop.

        Marco beamed at Jean. “If we tried that with anyone else, it would be the same thing,” he assured him.

        Jean's forehead crinkled in puzzlement. “I don't think I understand,” he said cautiously, setting his drink down on the table.

        “Ever see Men In Black?”

        Jean relaxed, leaning back in his chair, an easy-going grin on his face. “Only roughly three hundred times.” Marco couldn't tell if he was joking or not.

        “'Your entire image is crafted to leave no lasting memory with anyone you encounter. You're a rumor, recognizable only as deja vu and dismissed just as quickly.'” Marco quoted seriously.

        “Easy there Zed.” Jean grinned cheekily, then frowned, asking, “Then how come I...?”

        Marco took a knowing sip of his cappuccino, smirking. “I'm your guardian angel, aren't I?”

 

        “Sorry, it's not much. You okay with sleeping on the couch?”

        “Of course, don't worry about me, Jean.” Marco smiled. “Just throw me a blanket or something and I'm good.”

        Jean nodded and turned around a corner. Marco could hear a door opening. He went back to looking over the small apartment. He was standing in the living room, DVD cases and somewhat crumpled papers were being reorganized on the coffee table in front of the couch, small book shelves tucked away into each corner. There was a hand held notebook resting under a lamp, opened and revealing Jean's jumbled handwriting. Another notebook was in the spotless kitchen, closed and on top of the microwave. Down the hallway where Jean had disappeared was where the bathroom and bedroom were, Marco assumed.

        “What's with the notebooks?” Marco asked when Jean came back in, carrying a pillow and a sheet.

        Jean blushed and dumped his cargo onto the couch unceremoniously. “I just, like to keep them on hand. For writing purposes, you know?” Looking embarrassed, he closed the notebook and glanced away from Marco.

        “That's pretty cool, actually.”

        Jean blinked, mildly surprised before plopping onto the couch and patting the space next to him. “Anyway, I got a question for you now.”

        “Ask away,” Marco sat down.

        “As my guardian angel, why are you here? Like, why now? Is something gonna happen to me?”

        Marco bit his lip. Jean looked... scared. His eyes locked onto his gaze, and his fingers drummed against the arm of the couch frantically.

        Marco didn't know how good of a liar he could be until he met Jean.

        “I don't know. That's why I'm here.”

 

        Day Three.

        Marco was settling into life at Jean's place quite nicely. The couch wasn't half bad, and Jean was a pretty good cook too. Marco had been assigned the task of putting the DVDs back in order. The blond owned a lot more musicals than he liked to admit.

        “They're quality entertainment. Connie got me into them,” Jean tried to defend himself.

        “I don't know, they've never been my thing...”

        Jean shot him a wicked grin. “You know what? Then we're gonna make it your thing. In three days tops, you will be a musical nut, I guarantee it! Your training starts tonight. We'll start with Little Shop of Horrors\- do you want extra butter on the popcorn?”

        “Duh,” Marco rolled his eyes, obediently setting up the movie.

        By the time the popcorn was ready and the overture began, Marco was starting to have doubts. “Um, Jean? This looks kind of scary...”

        Jean laughed. “What kind of guardian angel are you?”

        “Not the type that specializes in dealing with man-eating plants.”

        “Damn. And here I thought you could handle anything.”

        Marco jutted out his chin stubbornly, stealing a handful of popcorn from the bowl in Jean's hands. “Can so. Anything on this planet,” He added, remembering having a discussion of the musical with a theater geek he collected the soul of a few months ago. If his memory was correct, the plant ended up being an alien? Who thought that would be a good idea?

        “Even a big, scary musical?” Jean nudged him, smirking, eyes bright and teasing.

        Marco, stuck, sighed and gave in, leaning against Jean's shoulder in defeat. “Especially a big, scary musical,” he muttered dejectedly.

        “That's my angel,” Jean smiled softly, turning his gaze away from Marco's to the screen, not seeming to pick up on Marco's blush and quickly-beating heart.

 

        Jean had started singing as soon as he heard the first note of Grow For Me. He had monologued through Da Doo, warning Marco exactly what he was getting into. Jean clearly liked musicals a lot more than he let on, because he tried to sing Somewhere That's Green in the original key and nearly succeeded, pulled Marco up from the couch, nearly spilling popcorn everywhere in order to dance with him in Dentist!, and gave Marco his best death scene while also singing Seymour's part in Now (It's Just The Gas). The one man duets continued during Call Back In The Morning and Suddenly, Seymour.

        “Your voice is pretty good,” Marco grinned and gave Jean a standing ovation.

        He rubbed the back of his neck, and said, “Ah, it's nothing special. You should hear Christa. Anyway,” Jean cleared his throat. “You liked it?”

        Marco smiled, noticing the way he had bashfully brushed away the compliment. Jean had come off so cocky and brash. It was nice to see he had a sweeter, more humble side to him. “It wasn't bad. A little weird, yeah. But the songs were super catchy.”

        “Then you'll love Into The Woods.” Jean announced, waving the case of the next show around like a flag. “I'll get more popcorn.”

 

        Day Eight.

        Jean had a habit of catching him off guard, Marco quickly learned.

        Marco had been sitting on the couch, reading a book and only half paying attention to Jean, who had been ranting about Eren's worst trait of the day. Marco heard a new one every time Jean came home after spending the day with his friends.

        He invited Marco along, but Marco would turn him down every time. He didn't want to be a bother, and as nice as Jean's friends seemed, if Marco stopped talking for a minute or two, they would forget who he was. It sounded tedious, and Marco didn't want to deal with it. Jean would probably get annoyed as well at their lack of memory. It would be better for everyone if he stayed home, and texted Jean periodically to make sure he was okay.

        Because guardian angels were supposed to do that.

        He sometimes felt guilty about it. Jean was quickly growing on him, and they were pretty good friends. Marco hated lying. But it seemed he didn't have a choice. He would tell him the truth eventually.

        “Can I ask you something?” Jean asked from the kitchen.

        Marco glanced up from his book. “Of course, anything.”

        Jean didn't hesitate. “How did you die?”

        His mouth went dry. “No.... Nobody's ever asked me that before,” he said quietly. He had closed the book and set it aside, and his hands gripped his legs tightly to stop them from shaking.

        Jean, thankfully, didn't hear him. “Hey, I didn't cross a line, did I? You look kind of pale,” He frowned, sitting down next to him, biting his lip.

        Marco shook his head quickly, screwing his eyes shut. “No, no... I mean, if anyone should be able to ask, it's you...” The man who soul he would be collecting in less than a month. That only made Marco feel worse. No one should have to die young. He shoved the guilt to the back of his mind and answered in a broken voice, “I jumped off of a bridge.”

        It took Jean a few seconds to comprehend. His eyes grew wide and his mouth hung open a little. “You mean...?”

        “Suicide.” Marco confirmed, voice tight.

        Jean seemed horrified, but asked why anyway.

        “I just,” He paused, took a deep breath, and found his voice again. “My life was devoted to helping people. When I felt I couldn't do that anymore... I don't know, it seemed there wasn't any other option,” Marco didn't know there were tears streaming down his cheeks until Jean was wiping them away.

        Marco met his sad smile with watery eyes, and when Jean held him in his arms, Marco felt warm and safe. Like nothing could touch him. Like Jean was his guardian angel instead of the other way around.

        It was an addiction.

        “I'm sorry,” The words were whispered in his ear. “I wish I could've been there for you. I didn't mean to push you too far or something,”

        “No no, don't worry about it.” Marco mumbled into his chest. “You have a right to know. Besides, it was a long time ago. I should be able to talk about it by now. Don't worry about me, Jean,” he looked up, meeting his gaze. “I'm sorry for making this a big deal."

        Jean studied him, still holding onto his shoulders. The silence seemed tense, then Jean said, “Come on.” He stood up, heading to the kitchen to get his wallet.

        “Where are we going?”

        “I'm taking you out to lunch.”

 

        The clothing store was supposed to be a joke.

        “C'mon, I want to see if you can wear anything besides suits without being struck down by some fucking heavenly deity.” Jean cackled, his eyes gleaming teasingly.

        Personally, Marco didn't think it would happen, but didn't want to run the risk, just in case.

        Jean insisted, and promptly dragged him into the store. “I need some new jeans anyway.”

        Not ten minutes into their shopping trip, Jean pushed Marco into a changing room with an armful of clothes. “Humor me, Freckles!” he shouted through the closed door.

        Marco rolled his eyes and started going through the pile. It seemed everything was tight jeans and graphic t-shirts. Reluctantly, he grabbed a pair of bright red pants that were on top of the pile and a white shirt with some black patterns on it, which looked kind of like a hipster's version of a tree. “Jean, this isn't really my style,” he complained when he walked out of the changing room to find the blond waiting for him.

        “That's too bad, your ass looks _sweet_ in those jeans.”

        Marco's cheeks reddened, becoming flustered. “Come on Jean, there's got to be something else I could wear, if you want me in normal clothes so bad.”

        “Alright alright, you can find some new outfits, just give me another twirl or something?” Jean pouted. Marco considered doing it, but Jean waved the request away after a moment, going to find the clothing he needed. The Reaper sighed, and carried on his impromptu shopping trip in somewhat gloomy silence until Jean appeared at his side again, grinning and showing off his shiny silver credit card. “Come on, angel, let's get moving, this money isn't going to spend itself!”

        “I can find some way to pay you back,” Marco promised, already wanting to slip on one of the hoodies he had gotten.

        Jean smirked. “Don't worry about it, I have a rich mom, remember? If you need anything else, it's on me.”

 

        Day Thirteen.

        Jean told him around the second day of his stay about the woes of writers block. Normally, he would just go through this dry spell, when all he could do was edit, maybe manage a poem, before he found his muse again. Those could last anywhere from two days to two weeks. He kept himself busy either way.

        But this time, it was different. Marco could feel it in the air. It had only been three days, but Jean was a wreck. He stayed locked in his room, except for meals, and Marco would find himself pressed against the door, wondering what was happening on the other side.

        “It's like, there are _words_ there, but I _just can't get them out_.” he shouted over dinner on the second night, stabbing his salad in frustration.

        Marco had heard several things from the safety of the hallway. Loud music, muffled swearing, lots of thumps and bangs, but he had drawn the line at crying, and decided to pick the lock and enter his room.

        Jean was surrounded by crumpled papers, but he looked satisfied, even with the tears rolling down his face. “I did it. Marco I did it. I found the words. Here,” His voice was desperate as he pushed the paper he was holding into Marco's grasp with shaking hands. “Read it. Tell me what you think.”

        Even though he wanted more than anything to comfort Jean, Marco did what he requested, and read.

        _I can't tell you my name because I've never needed a name before. I'm not something that can be defined through a few letters. I'm a force, untamed and wild and scathing like ice sheets cracking. I'm the melody that you hear on a warm breeze, the harmony lost in time. I defy description. These images I am sending you will do little to nothing to convey my true spirit. I am the sound of a star being born, of a world collapsing. I am what it feels like to make a wish at your 11:11, the way tears crave into your salty skin and are wiped away by a tender hand. I am the ache you feel in your chest when the one you love is lost and when they come back. I am how small you feel when you think of the vastness of the universe, I am the strength that courses through you when you realize there is no such thing as fate._

_But you do need something to call me by._

_You can call me Sky._

        It was that moment, reading his words, Marco realized how deeply he was falling in love with Jean. He didn't know when it started, but it was the most real and true thing he had ever felt. All Marco could do was stare at him, feeling like the other boy could see through him and pick out what was burning in his heart, until he finally whispered, “It's beautiful. You're... amazing.”

        Jean rubbed the back of his neck, blushing. “It's alright,” he muttered, not looking at Marco. “I don't even know what I'm going to end up doing with it.”

        Marco knelt down, placing the paper onto it's creator's lap, and he said, “I know you'll figure something out.”

 

        Day Fifteen.

        Jean had been right. Marco could now say he was a fan of the musical.

        That night, they were watching West Side Story. It had been two days, and Marco still didn't know what to do about his revelation about his feelings for Jean. His snapping in Jet Song was unbearably cute and Something's Coming made Marco's heart ache. He knew he was doomed when Maria started playing.

        Jean had seemed hesitant at first, strangely enough, because Jean always jumped up to his feet and belted out the lyrics with pride. “What, you aren't a fan of lovesick ballads?” Marco nudged him playfully, trying to pinpoint what the problem was.

        As if to prove him wrong, Jean stood up next to the television and looked directly at Marco when he finally started. At first, his gaze was hard, ready to meet the challenge, but it slowly turned earnest, almost longing, and Marco felt himself blushing again. He wasn't going to hold up much longer at this rate without blurting out his thoughts, not with Jean's honey voice and smoldering eyes and fluid movements, slowly finding his way towards Marco again, like a magnet.

        “J-Jean,” Marco tried to piece together what was happening, because there was no way Jean Kirstein could be draping himself on top of Marco, still singing, husky and low, caressing his cheek for a moment, staring into his eyes before bringing himself even closer, kissing him soft and sensual, like he was a work of art.

        His lips were a bit chapped, but warm, and electrifying.

        Marco decided to stop thinking for a while.

 

        Day Sixteen.

        They settled again, in a slightly different pace.

        For one thing, Marco no longer slept on the couch. Jean's bed was slightly small, but neither one of them cared.

 

        Day Twenty.

        Marco had completely forgotten, that he wasn't human, not even alive, and Jean won't be for very long either. Jean had a way of making him forget things, like his duties as a Reaper, or how to breath when he smiled at him.

        On their third date, exploring the city together with no destination in mind, they ran into Annie, another Reaper. One of Marco's good friends. She stared at their laced fingers for a moment, then nodded briefly at Marco's surprised greeting. “I was on my way to the hospital, thought I'd get a bagel or something on the way,”

        “There's a great place down the block.” Jean said suspiciously, not sure what to make of the small blonde. “What are you going to the hospital for?”

        “Business.” she answered blankly, still looking at Marco. She raised an eyebrow as he blushed. She didn't say anything else, just waved simply as she walked away, but Marco got her message from the look in her eyes.

        _I won't tell anyone._

_Good luck._

 

        Day Twenty One.

        “C'mon, angel, I know something's been on your mind.” Jean whined from his spot on Marco's lap.

        Marco didn't want to lie to him anymore. Not about being an angel, not about anything. “I don't suppose you remember a small, angry blonde woman we met yesterday?”

        “Small, angry blonde woman?” Jean blinked. “Not ringing any bells.”

        “I thought so.” Marco suppressed a sigh, feeling an ache in his chest.

        “Was she like, an ex or something? Should I be worried?”

        “Nothing like that, no.” Marco started to grin from his jealous frown. “She's from where I'm from, we're pretty good friends. She reminded me I actually have a job to do here.”

        “You mean, a job that doesn't involve fucking me senseless?”

        “I wish.”

        “Does that mean you're not gonna fuck me senseless?”

        “Come on, Jean, you know me better than that.”

        “Hell yeah I do. I'm in love with every inch of you.”

        Marco wasn't sure whether to laugh or cry.

 

        Day Twenty Two.

        Marco told Jean how much he loved him every day, at every opportunity. Jean would be washing dishes and passing them off to Marco to dry, and he would lean over, kiss his cheek, and say, “I love you, you know that?”

        “'Course I do, dumbass.”

        He did this because he knew Jean didn't have much time left.

 

        Day Twenty Three.

        But there was a way.

        Two, in fact.

        You could cheat death in two ways.

        1. Suicide. You would still end up dying, but not at the proper time. By definition, that was cheating death- dying when it wasn't your time. Marco felt sick at the thought, even though it meant he and Jean would be together forever.

        2. The reaper could let you go. Put your escaped soul back into your body, and you would live again. This was illegal, and could result in major punishment. Like banishment, or even execution.

        Marco felt sick again.

        He wanted Jean to live more than anything. No one deserved to die young. Especially not him, the man he loved, who had so many things to offer the world. He still hadn't figured out where Sky belonged, but Marco knew it would be great.

        But he knew Jean wouldn't want him to get killed so he could live. He remembered the look on his face when he learned about Marco's suicide. Jean would be able to stand it if it was for his sake.

        Because Jean wanted Marco to live too.

 

        Day Twenty Nine.

        They went on dates every day.

        Marco still didn't tell Jean the truth.

 

        Day Thirty.

        It happened in slow motion.

        The driver didn't realize it was a red light, and that Jean was crossing the road.

        Marco was on the other side. They were supposed to met up on the street corner when Jean got back from the movies with Connie and Sasha. They were going to go to a romantic French restaurant.

        Marco had forgotten. How simple death was.

 

        It was the first time he screamed.

        Not even when that girl he handled a few months ago was murdered, he didn't scream.

        But this was _Jean_.

        This was _Jean_ , the one who called him angel, the one who wrote pretty words and sang musical numbers and had a dorky grin and blushed when he said, “I love you,” bleeding out into the asphalt, blood turning silver in the moonlight. _His_ Jean, who he loved more than anything else in the world.

        “Don't worry, I'm gonna call 911, you're going to be fine, I can fix this,”

        Even now he was grinning. “You... are a shitty guardian angel.”

        “That's because I'm not, I lied to you, I'm so sorry Jean, I love you so much,”

        He wasn't listening. “It's okay. I still love you.”

        Marco was crying. Jean had blood dribbling out from his chapped, warm, perfect lips.

        “We'll... see each other... like, in the afterlife, right?” Only now he was desperate, gasping and grasping at Marco's hands, the first time he had seen him afraid.

        The Reaper smiled sadly, and said, “We will.”

        It wasn't completely a lie.

        It was a hope.

        Maybe, he added silently as Jean closed his eyes.

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for reading! Let me know what you thought, on here or on Tumblr (ihaveapencilbehindmyear)!


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